


News

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Established Relationship, Hospitals, Inline with canon, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3802906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Gokudera is expecting the phone call when it comes." Gokudera's just starting to fall into a routine when it is shattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Routine

Gokudera is expecting the phone call when it comes. It’s late in the day, the sun starting to sink into red and gold on the horizon, but that means the baseball team should be finishing up their practice, and that means Yamamoto is about to call. It’s become nearly a routine in Gokudera’s life, the phone ringing late in the evening, Yamamoto’s laugh on the other end when he picks up, and then the fifteen minutes of completely inane conversation while Yamamoto walks home from school and Gokudera insists he will hang up without actually doing so. He’s just learned to expect it, now, so when his phone rings he doesn’t startle, doesn’t even look at the caller ID before he picks it up.

“You ought to be old enough to walk home without needing someone to distract you,” he growls as he pushes his book away, leans back against the edge of his bed so he can settle into the conversation he is expecting.

The voice on the other end  _isn’t_  the one he’s expecting. “Gokudera?” It’s rougher, lower, so different than what Gokudera was expecting and so out-of-context from the usual insulting nicknames he’s used to hearing in that tone that it takes him a moment to place.

“Lawn head?” He can feel his expression falling into lines of confusion; he’s not sure Ryohei has  _ever_  called him, didn’t even know the other had his number. “Why are you calling me?”

“Gokudera,” Ryohei says again, and this time Gokudera can hear the strain on his name, the ache of sympathy under the syllables. He’s suddenly not sure Ryohei has ever referred to him by his name before, is having a cold chill of premonition even before the other says, “Bad news.”

“What?” Gokudera is on his feet before he thinks, pushing what he was doing aside. “What, what is it, is it the Tenth? Where are you?”

“I’m at Central Hospital,” Ryohei says, and Gokudera is making for the door without bothering with a jacket, icy terror turning into adrenaline in his veins. “It’s not Tsuna. You need to come straight here.”

“Don’t be fucking  _coy_ ,” Gokudera snaps, temper running frayed and tense as he steps out into the dying light and slams the door behind him. “What the fuck happened?”

There’s a pause, hesitation like Gokudera’s never heard in Ryohei’s voice. Then: “It’s Yamamoto” and even Gokudera’s nervous energy goes still, freezes him with his hand on the gate.

“I found him at the school,” Ryohei’s voice is saying, and Gokudera’s barely hearing the words, Gokudera’s lungs aren’t working while he waits for the confirmation he needs, the reassurance that he can go on breathing. “They brought him straight to the hospital. You need to come.”

“Is--” Gokudera starts, and all his strength fails him, the words too horrifying to let slip out into reality.

“He’s alive,” and Gokudera’s breathing kicks back on, rushing desperate like it’s trying to make up for lost time. “You should--”

“I’m coming,” Gokudera says, the words sounding odd coming past lips gone numb, and hangs up before Ryohei can say anything else. The phone goes in his pocket, the gate opens under fingers he can’t feel, and then he’s running, taking off down the street at a pace too desperate to sustain for long. He knows he can’t make it the whole way running like this, knows he ought to slow down to let his lungs catch up to his movement, but his heart is pounding frantic in his chest and if he runs fast enough maybe he can lose the sense at the back of his head that this is what he deserves for trusting to routine.


	2. Shaking

Gokudera isn’t sure how long Ryohei lets him sit in silence. He knows he got to the hospital some time ago; the burn of exhaustion in his lungs has faded, a little, until what tension is in his chest now is unrelated to physical exertion. He had found Ryohei blessedly quickly, the other boy reaching out in a futile attempt to hold Gokudera back from the emergency room.

“You don’t want to see,” Ryohei had said, his eyes dark and wide, and Gokudera had pushed past him without bothering with any delay of trying to find words to explain that  _want_  has nothing to do with the  _need_  to know how bad things are right away.

There wasn’t even a yell when he pushed the door open; the people inside were too busy to worry about one extra observer, too caught up in trying to stem what looked like an endless flow of blood. Gokudera had gone still in the doorway, staring blindly for a moment, because for a moment it didn’t look like Yamamoto at all, the red of arterial blood too bright to be anything but a doll, a mirage, a nightmare.

Then someone had moved, a doctor stepping aside, and fate stepped in to give Gokudera a single perfectly clear look at Yamamoto’s face before a nurse pulled an oxygen mask over the unconscious blankness of his features, and Gokudera felt the last of his desperate denial drop away along with his sense of gravity.

He doesn’t remember coming back out to the hallway. He doesn’t remember leaning against the wall, or sliding down to hunch over his knees, pressing his face in against his hands so all he can see is red behind his shut eyes. It’s awful, it’s nightmarish, he’s sure he’ll never sleep again, but amidst the shocking red and the flurry of movement there was the dark smudge of Yamamoto’s eyelashes, the unbearable softness of his lips, and Gokudera has to burn that into his memory in case it’s the last beautiful thing he ever sees in this world.

It’s into the echoing distance of his thoughts that Ryohei speaks, letting his breath out all at once like he’s been holding it. “Tsuna needs to know,” he says, and Gokudera hears the words like a criticism, a reminder of something he should have thought of, and even then they carry no more weight than what he is already bearing. “I’ll find a phone.”

“No,” Gokudera says into his hands.

“I can do it,” Ryohei starts, and Gokudera lifts his dry eyes to stare at the other’s face.

“The Tenth needs to know,” he repeats back. When he pushes to his feet he’s surprised to find he stays upright, shocked that his feet hold him. “It’s the responsibility of the right hand man.” Ryohei is looking at him with a crease in his forehead, concern or pity or something else, Gokudera can’t read it right now. “I’ll do it.”

His hand doesn’t start shaking until the phone is ringing. There’s an impulse to hang up, to avoid passing along the news as if that will make it somehow less real, but before Gokudera can more than take a breath there is a voice on the other line, an unfamiliar “Hello?” sounding in his ear.

“This is Gokudera Hayato,” he says without any additional introduction or apology. “I’m the Tenth’s right-hand-man. I need to speak to him right away.” There’s another breath, this one catching in his throat now that the formal statement is past, and then: “It’s an emergency.”

“One moment please.” The voice on the other line is steady, even, unflustered even by Gokudera’s statement. Gokudera shuts his eyes, listens to the faint sound of static and distant voices on the other end of the phone. He can hear Tsuna speak, some incoherent sound still clear enough for his voice to be identifiable, and then an inhale and “Hello, Gokudera-kun? It’s me.”

“Tenth,” Gokudera says, too fast, his composure sliding away before he can hope to reclaim it. “It’s an emergency.”

“Huh?”

“It’s Yamamoto,” and Gokudera can hear the way his voice gives way on that name, the syllables familiar and sweeter now than they have ever seemed before, the crush of emotion trembling in his throat.

“Yamamoto?” Tsuna is hesitant, now, like his intuition is whispering some hint of the truth to him. “What happened to Yamamoto?”

“He was attacked,” Gokudera says, can hear the other end of the line go as silent with shock as if he had been cut off. “Ryohei found him at school. He’s at the hospital now but--” His voice cracks, sound skidding out from his tongue until he has to take a breath to push back the tightness in his throat, has to retreat to the safety of inhuman pronouns instead of specific ones. “It’s not good, Tenth. Please come.”

“Yeah,” Tsuna says, sounding weak and overwhelmed, and Gokudera has to repeat himself, just to make sure the meaning carried.

“You need to come.” He chokes on an inhale, his voice trembling audibly over the phone line. “Hurry.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re at Central Hospital. Ryohei and I and…” Gokudera can’t breathe, he can’t see, his vision is going hot and blurring into red.

“Central Hospital,” Tsuna repeats. Gokudera can feel his heart pounding against the tension in his throat. “Got it. I’ll be there.”

Gokudera isn’t sure if he says thanks. He isn’t sure he says anything at all. What he is sure about is that he manages to get the phone shut before the first vicious sob tears at his throat, curls in against the wall and covers his face with his hands while he bites his lip in an attempt to hold back the involuntary tremors of panic that are turning themselves into near-hysteria in his throat. He can feel a premonition of the future cold against his spine, certainty of the loss to come settling over him like all the pessimistic predictions he threw in Yamamoto’s laughing face are coming true at once.

For the first time in his life, he wishes he had lost to Yamamoto in this.


	3. Support

Gokudera’s hands won’t stop shaking.

He didn’t notice at first, in the first wave of disbelief and the adrenaline-fueled rush of the fight with Daemon Spade. There was too much happening, too many things speeding past him all at once, and after the first -- Yamamoto alive, and standing, speaking and breathing and  _smiling_  -- Gokudera hasn’t been able to adequately process any of the rest of the revelations. He hit disbelief and stayed there, feeling vaguely like he’s dreaming, like the world has tilted on its axis and suddenly he’s standing in the sunlight he thought he’d never see again.

It doesn’t feel real until Yamamoto collapses after his fight, drops to his knees with a groan of pain that sounds all too real, and then Gokudera’s there, painfully present in his own skin and stumbling forward, because if anyone’s going to catch Yamamoto this time it’ll be him. There’s no distinction in his head between this and the shout that pours over his tongue without checking in at his mind; it’s all just emotion, incoherent in his head even though it’s coming out as Yamamoto’s name, criticism and insults laced over with the syllables that have been so painful to even think, these last few days. It’s weird to feel them going soft again, melting back into the pleasure they carried before as if all the aching misery and guilt and impending loss were just the dregs of a nightmare, even the memories fading with the arrival of day. Gokudera’s never been more grateful to Reborn than he is in the moment the Arcobaleno points out Hibari’s sleeping form, effectively pulling Tsuna’s attention away for the moment Gokudera needs to move in closer.

“Here,” he growls in a shoddy imitation of his usual irritation, reaching for Yamamoto’s wrist with his fingers shaking so badly he can’t still them for even a breath. “Can’t even stand on your own without support, what kind of a guardian are you?”

Yamamoto’s staring right at him, his eyelashes thicker than Gokudera remembered, his lips parted on a faint smile so familiar it makes Gokudera’s breathing catch with the burn of nostalgia.

“Hayato,” he says, so soft the word won’t carry, so soft it slides right past Gokudera’s defenses to burn in his throat with the tears that aren’t even necessary, anymore. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera says. He turns his shoulders so he can fit Yamamoto’s arm around his neck, can take the warm weight of the other’s balance onto himself with the excuse of giving support. His arm fits in against Yamamoto’s waist, fingers catching against unfamiliar clothing, and in the first rush of sensation Gokudera can feel the urge to turn his head like a physical force, the impulse to press his mouth to Yamamoto’s so strong it takes consideration of every member of the audience they will have to stop him.

“You’re an idiot,” he says instead, pushing to his feet and drawing Yamamoto with him. The other really is hanging onto his shoulders -- his knees are weaker than Gokudera bargained for -- but the necessity of support is pushing him in close, all the heat of his body pressed flush against Gokudera’s.

Yamamoto doesn’t seem to be listening, He’s watching Gokudera’s face, Gokudera can feel the focus of the other’s gaze on his features, can see the heartstopping smile in his periphery without needing to look. “Did you get my message?”

“ _What_?” Gokudera keeps his eyes fixed on Tsuna’s shoulders where the other is leaning over Hibari, tries to remember how to breathe properly after what feels like weeks of holding his breath. “What are you talking about?”

“I wrote the message in Italian,” Yamamoto says, and he’s leaning in, his hair is brushing Gokudera’s cheek and his breath is blowing warm against the collar of the other’s shirt. “I wanted you to know I was thinking of you.”

Gokudera turns his head, fast, before Yamamoto has a chance to pull away or look up. His lips press against the soft of the other’s dark hair, his voice coming out cracked and rushed and hissing so the sound won’t carry to anyone else.

“If you  _ever_  even  _think_  about dying and leaving me with just a message again I  _swear_  I will find you and I will kill you myself, Takeshi.” Yamamoto makes a faint noise into his shoulder, a tiny choked laugh that turns into a sigh halfway through, and Gokudera has to look away again, pull his lips free of Yamamoto’s hair before he loses control of whatever resistance is keeping him from kissing the smile right off Yamamoto’s perfect mouth.

His hands are still trembling, the adrenaline running rampant through his veins too much to overcome. But the tension in his chest feels like relief, now, feels warm and radiant instead of brittle with panic, and with his fingers pressed against Yamamoto’s waist, there’s no one to notice his reaction except the other boy.

They’re both steadier for the support.


End file.
